


The Lost Pebble

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [12]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Baby Dwarves, Dwarf & Elf Cultural Differences, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Elf Culture & Customs, F/M, Gen, Good Parent Thranduil, Mutual Pining, Pebbles, inter-racial friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 04:22:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8782819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Thorin Oakenshield did not get the reception he expected when he stood before the Elvenking of Mirkwood, all because of... his mother?The story of the time when a very different Dwarf was lost beneath the trees of Mirkwood, and the far-reaching consequences of her relationship with the Elves of the Woodland Realm, which will echo through time.Alternatively, "That time Legolas adopted a baby Dwarf."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Bold denotes Khuzdul.  
> Cursive denotes Sindarin.

Catching sight of the Forest Gate, Rhonith drew in a sigh of relief, feeling slightly unsteady. Her side was soaked in blood, making the guards cry out when she was spotted.

“My Lady!” one of them exclaimed, reaching her in a few steps and taking the small pack she carried. “Were you attacked in the forest?”

“Magoldir…” Rhonith replied sluggishly, recognising the younger ellon. “Spider… very big.” Swaying gently, she let him prop her up, hardly protesting when he swung her into his arms, setting off towards the Healing Halls while barking orders that someone inform the King and the Prince of her condition.

Putting the injured elleth down on a cot, Magoldir stepped back, watching as Nestor swiftly cut off her tunic, revealing the bloody tear in her flesh. He winced.

“It’s not too deep,” Nestor murmured, shaking back his green sleeves as he examined the wound, tracing the jagged edges with a finger. “You’ll need to limit use of the arm until it heals, however.” Washing it out with a herbal solution made Rhonith wince, but she did not cry out. Singing a slow tune, Nestor halted the bleeding, gathering up a wad of bandage material and a roll of linen, securing it tightly around Rhonith’s upper arm. “I’ve never seen such a cut before,” he mused, “what made it?”

“A spider, she said,” Magoldir replied, “but surely that was the blood loss talking?”

“No, Lieutenant,” Rhonith replied dreamily, “I said a spider… about as tall as your waist. Quick, too.” The guardsman gasped. With a swift bow, he left the Healing Halls, seeking out the Captain of the Guard to make a report. Such a creature could only have come from the darkness of Dol Goldur; they would need to investigate.

“A spider?” Nestor asked, tying off the bandage. He frowned. Rhonith just nodded, yawning. Removing her undershirt carefully, she frowned at the bloodied state of her breast-band.

Her consideration – Nestor had politely turned away, though it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen her in varying states of undress before – was interrupted when the corridor outside the Healing Halls suddenly resounded with loud wailing.

“Healer!” A frantic patrol-guard cried out, bursting through the door holding what Rhonith slowly recognised as a small… dwarfling? Trying to make sense of what her eyes were telling her, she missed most of the elleth’s explanation. “… we don’t know what to do, the babe won’t take milk; we even tried bringing her to Seregiel for nursing!” The name distantly rung a bell, but it took Rhonith several minutes to remember the name of Dúmon’s wife.

“It’s a dwarfling,” Nestor replied wonderingly, but the wailing only increased when he reached out to touch a cheek.

“Give her to me,” Rhonith murmured, having to repeat herself when the two elves simply stared at her.

“ _Hiril vuin_[1]?” the elleth asked, looking between Rhonith’s half-naked and bandaged form and the stern visage of Nestor.

“My Lady, you need rest,” Nestor objected, but Rhonith just scowled, reaching for the small dwarf with her good arm.

 “Give her to me, Alacthel,” Rhonith repeated.

“My Lady, you are injured. We don’t know what the spider’s bite may have done,” Nestor cautioned, but Rhonith waved away his concerns.

“It’s a dwarfling; can you think of anyone more knowledgeable in that area in these Halls?” she asked, reaching for the small pebble. Nestor bowed slightly, accepting the argument, but he still looked wary when Alacthel handed the little girl over, happily fleeing. “ **Shosh, kafnith, astû nusus**[2],” Rhonith crooned, bringing the small body close to her chest and holding her securely. Fingering one of her longer braids, she flipped it over her shoulder until it brushed against the dwarfling’s hand. The small hand instantly wrapped tightly around the braid as the pebble turned her face against Rhonith’s chest, mouthing at the bindings covering her breasts. The wail that had lessened with the soft khuzdul words began once more. “Nestor, remove my bindings, please.” Rhonith’s voice brooked no argument.

 

A breathless runner from the Front Gate had interrupted Legolas’ meeting with Captain Bronwe, and the Prince had quickly made his way towards the Healing Halls, speeding his steps at the sound of wailing. Entering the Halls of Healing, he came to an abrupt stop, staring at the display that met his eyes. Rhonith’s breasts were bared, a small golden head nosing against her, still issuing loud cries. He gasped. “ **Shosh, abadith**[3] **,** ” she murmured, stroking the pebble’s hair. “ **Aslâtul **[4]****?” The tiny dwarfling unerringly sought her nipple, one hand still wrapped firmly around the braid of hair, the other kneading Rhonith’s breast wilfully. Behind her, Nestor was stacking pillows, until Rhonith could lean back in a half-sitting position. The child continued crying when her efforts did not yield milk. “Ai, Legolas.” Rhonith looked up with a smile, when she noticed the intruder. Her attention was focused on the small dwarfling in her arms; otherwise she might have paid more attention to Legolas’ dumbfounded expression. “Go fetch a small pail of goat’s milk and a spoon, please.”

 

 

“What did you want this for?” the prince asked, when he walked back through the door, looking at the things he’d been sent to fetch. When he lifted his head, he was struck once more by the sight of her completely uncovered breasts; too late did he remember to avert his eyes, knowing it was a sight that would haunt his dreams for years to come. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words came out. He wondered if he had entered a realm of fantasies brought to life; would her next command be ‘touch me’? A fierce blush stained his ears cherry red and made his cheeks glow at the idea. Part of him felt ashamed for his lustful thoughts, but another – much larger – part felt nearly crippling jealousy staring at the small golden head of the Dwarf-child.

“You’ll have to help me feed her, I’m not...well,” Rhonith admitted, her eyes half closed, and suddenly Legolas remembered that he’d come running because he had been told she was wounded. “Get one of Nestor’s linen squares and put it on my shoulder,” she yawned, “a corner should reach her mouth and my nipple. Then dribble the milk down the cloth slowly so she can suckle.” Rhonith finally lifted her head from her wailing bundle, only to see the princeling standing in the middle of the room looking lost. “Sit behind me,” she barked. With a slight jolt, Legolas did as he was told, taking position with his back against the mound of pillows and pulling her into his arms, praying she wouldn’t notice his physical reaction to her closeness. With a small sigh, Rhonith settled between his legs and leaned back against his chest.

Lifting the spoon, Legolas felt entirely uncomfortable with his new task, but began steadily dribbling milk onto her chest. When the first drops reached the hungry child, she began suckling happily, snuffling slightly until her tears abated. Rhonith’s left hand was busy holding the corner of the milk-sodden cloth to her nipple and cradling the dwarfling with her right. She closed her eyes, her head falling back to rest on Legolas’ shoulder. Murmured Khuzdul kept falling from her lips, and though Legolas didn’t understand a word he thought it might be a lullaby. Rhonith’s breasts lay uncovered, a sight he had fantasised often, yet reality was far superior to his paltry imaginations. Spread out in front of his eyes was delectable pale flesh, soft rounded breasts with small pink nipples.  The sheen covering one from the dwarfling’s mouth and a few stray drops of milk made him convinced he was dreaming. How else would he explain that he had been granted – if not permission for, then at least implicit consent to – this mesmerizing view? Legolas swallowed hard, focusing his shaky hands on their task, not on how much he wanted to touch her bared flesh. The elleth resting against his chest – and this was the part that made him accept that this _was_ reality – did not notice. Nor did she notice his rather obvious interest pressing against her. Legolas tried to block the images stumbling through his head but it was an exercise in futility, he had to admit. As time passed, she relaxed more and more against his chest, her words slurring with fatigue, but Legolas hardly noticed, lost in a daydream of recurring fantasies; Rhonith spread across his bed, hair in disarray and breasts caressed by his own lips, flushed in pleasure; sitting just like he was, but the child being a small elfling with his hair and Rhonith’s eyes. The last image stole his breath in a sharp exhalation of surprise, but Rhonith ignored it in favour of continuing to croon Khuzdul phrases at the dwarfling.

 

 

When Thranduil entered the Halls of Healing, it was to the sight of his son sleepily cradling a dozing Rhonith, whose arms were carefully holding a small child to her breast.

“Legolas… what are you doing?” Thranduil’s bemused voice cut through Legolas’ fantasy like a knife through butter. The younger elf winced, automatically tightening his arms around Rhonith, moving a hand up to shield her bare breast. The possessive gesture was almost mindless in its swiftness, as though the sight of her naked was his alone already. Legolas blushed. Thranduil’s smirk widened.

“Saving… pebble…” Rhonith said, sleepily, nuzzling against Legolas’ neck with a sigh. “Pebble was hungry.” With that, she went limp and boneless in Legolas’ embrace. Nestor cursed, bending swiftly to take her pulse. The two royals stiffened in worry, though Legolas kept careful hold of both elleth and Dwarf child – apparently they were called pebbles?

“She came in because a spider bit her…” he gestured to the bandage, “perhaps it carries a sleeping toxin? She claimed it was far larger than a spider should be able to grow.”

“A spider?” Thranduil asked with a frown. “I did not think a spider could take my daughter by surprise, Nestor.”

“This one was apparently the size of a large wolf, Aran-nîn,” Nestor demurred. Both sets of royal eyes widened, staring at the sleeping elleth. The pebble smacked her lips, her small pink tongue making an appearance as she yawned, burrowing against Rhonith’s chest and falling asleep easily, one hand still tightly clenched around a mithril braid. “Magoldir went to report to Captain Bronwe.”

“And the dwarfling?” Thranduil asked. “This does not explain why there is a tiny dwarf in my Realm, Nestor. Where are the parents?” the King barked. Nestor could only shrug. The answer came swiftly, however:

“Thranduil Aran, I have received a raven from Erebor.” Thranduil’s Seneschal Galion interrupted, coming through the door. “The king asks that we keep an eye out for a small child, lost from a Dwarven caravan due to an ambush by what the Naugrim claim were giant spiders.” He frowned at that, seemingly in disbelief, but Thranduil just nodded. Galion continued, “King Thrór asks only that we keep an eye out, and if any small bones are found, to send them to the mountain for proper burial.”

“Well, then,” Thranduil replied, staring at his son. “That explains how…”

“Send a messenger to Erebor at once.” Legolas interrupted, one hand unconsciously supporting the small sleeping pebble. “Tell King Thrór that we have found the child and that we will care for her until her parents can fetch her,” he demanded. His arms remained firmly around their precious burdens. Galion nodded, throwing a glance at his King, though Legolas did not raise his head to see it. Thranduil simply smiled, saying nothing. “When Rhonith is better, I’m sure she will want to meet the parents of Lothig[5].”

“Lothig, ionneg?” Thranduil asked mildly, making Legolas look up sharply. At the questioning looks from his Ada, he blushed deeply.

“Well, we can’t just call her ‘the dwarfling’, can we?” Legolas replied mulishly. “Lothig is a fine name for a small girl.”

Galion frowned, “You’re sure it’s a girl? I can’t tell.” The Prince ground his teeth, but Thranduil interrupted before he could vent his sudden anger.

“You can hardly tell the difference between the genders of elflings, Galion,” the Elvenking mused, mirth glittering in his aged eyes, “if Legolas says the babe is a girl, the babe is a girl.” He stepped forwards, running his finger across the sleeping dwarfling’s ear. “Welcome to Greenwood, Lothig.” Legolas nodded, throwing a glare in Galion’s direction for good measure. The Elvenking turned to the Master Healer, who was only a few millennia younger than him and had been one of Nínimeth’s students so long ago. “Nestor, do make sure my daughter recovers quickly,” he smiled, “the pebble seems quite attached to her temporary ‘parents’.” Thranduil made to leave the Healing Halls, but turned back once to look at his son, “I expect you to take responsibility for Lothig’s welfare, Legolas,” he said, and though his voice was mild it was a clear order. The King did not laugh at the look on his son’s face, but only because long years of experience had taught him better self-control. Legolas had the same panicked look on his face he had seen on many of his subjects when told they were to be a father. _Oh, ionneg, this will be good for you… and most amusing for me_ , he thought, chuckling under his breath as he walked along the corridor.

 

“If it makes you uncomfortable, I can probably find someone else to help feed her,” Rhonith said, when Legolas once more took up position behind her, certain that his ears were giving away every lustful and embarrassing moment of pining he suffered during the course of feeding the pebble, “but it is the only way to feed a pebble this young.” Leaning back against his chest when he didn’t reply, Rhonith spoke softly, her eyes focussed on the tiny red mouth seeking sustenance her body could not provide but latch on nonetheless. “Dwarflings are very attuned to sound and feel, as their eyes are very poor until they reach about three years of age. They orient mostly by hearing, and the sound of a heart beating is very soothing. I’ve never known a dwarfling who would feed in a different manner than what we are doing if separated from their mother, and I can only try to provide her with the comfort she seeks.” Rhonith continued crooning soft Khuzdul words he didn’t understand, but she made the gravelly syllables sound like the softest lullaby. Legolas smiled, stopping himself just before he pressed a kiss against the tip of her ear and ruthlessly returning his focus to his task, providing a steady stream of milk for the pebble to suckle.

“I don’t mind helping with Lothig,” he blurted, delighted by Rhonith’s happy smile and soft laughter.

“Lothig?” she smiled, turning to look at him as his hand crept close enough to caress the tiny ears of the dwarfling. She was much smaller than the elflings he had seen, but her gently waving limbs were perfectly proportional. He had already fallen just a little bit in love with her.

“She needed a name. And her mouth looks like a tiny red flower,” he explained, blushing slightly. Rhonith’s soft smile eased his fears and he returned to rubbing Lothig’s back carefully. “Ada said she was my responsibility until her parents arrive.” Legolas didn’t think it was a hardship – beyond the constant haze of lust he found himself in whenever he thought about Rhonith – but he was determined not to let her see how much she affected him. “I am supposed to keep her safe, and look after you while you heal from the spider’s poison,” he murmured, shuddering at the thought of the massive beast that had attacked her. Magoldir’s patrol-group had gone out to find the carcass, and though it had been mostly scavenged by the time they found it, there had been some very large pieces of exoskeleton left that had convinced the inhabitants of Thranduil’s Halls that they had been invaded by descendants of Ungolianth of legend.

“Thank you, mellon,” Rhonith murmured; she felt weak, still, though Nestor had promised that it would pass within a week or so.

 

Ten days later, Legolas was still trying to convince himself that his extended exposure to Rhonith’s gently sloping bosom rendered him immune from obsessing over the allure of the pale skin. It was a lie, but he _tried_ to convince himself otherwise. The first day had been the most awkward, until Rhonith had taken pity on him and told him not to feel embarrassed for having been caught looking. Legolas had simply nodded and praised any Valar he could think of that his deeper desires, spurred on by such lovely visions as had been plaguing his dreams, had gone unnoticed by the oblivious object of his affections. It was better that way, he knew, reminding himself of the vow he had made several centuries earlier regarding the elleth who held his heart in her flighty hands.

 

 

Currently, they were in his chambers, resting on a reclining divan as Lothig suckled down another meal. Legolas had been astounded to realise how much and how often Lothig would need feeding, but considering the countless benefits, he didn’t really mind; among these he did not count his almost perpetual erection that resurged every time he thought of or glanced at Rhonith’s naked bosom, though he did count the way he was allowed to hold her against his chest. Breathing softly, he inhaled the sweet, flowery scent of Rhonith’s hair, absentmindedly trailing his fingers across her side as she dozed off. Lothig had finished her suckling for now and was resting peacefully in the arms of her surrogate mother. Legolas dared not think of himself in the role of surrogate father except in his most private thoughts and dreams, but the images of _his_ Rhonith, rounded with _his_ child, nourishing _his_ elfling… those images were hard to keep at bay.

 

When the door burst open, interrupting his pleasant daydreaming, pure instinct had him instantly up off the divan, crouched in front of Rhonith and Lothig, and armed with his two short swords, hissing menacingly at the intruders. The Dwarf who had thrown the door open gasped, an axe springing to his own hands until he caught sight of the half unclothed elleth behind the angry elf. With a curse, he turned his back to them, holstering his weapon with a fluid motion.

“My apologies, fair maiden, for seeing what is not for mine eyes,” he rumbled. Rhonith rose, making her way to Legolas’ side and placing her hand on his arm in a calming gesture.

“No dishonour intended, Master Dwarf, and none done me or mine,” she replied. She had wrapped a small blanket loosely around her chest, but kept Lothig cradled in one arm. Lothig cried softly, the sound Legolas had realised meant she needed reassurance. He sheathed his swords, taking the dwarfling from Rhonith and letting her resettle her impromptu covering. Another dwarf peered anxiously around the doorway, giving a small happy cry when she caught sight of the child.

“Frís! My pebble!” the anxious dwarf cried, reaching for the small dwarfling, whose cries suddenly increased in volume, unsettled by the commotion. Legolas hummed softly.

“You are Lothig’s naneth[6]?” he asked, holding the small dwarfling towards the crying dwarf, who pulled her close to her – his? – chest. Legolas personally could not see the difference between Dwarven sexes, but he had been told, by a patient but bemused Rhonith, that Dwarrow tended to play up the similarities around strangers and outsiders for their own protection.

“Her Amad,” Rhonith explained kindly, when the dwarf looked puzzled. She smiled, “And you must be the worried Adad.” She directed her words toward the tense dwarf whose back was still turned. Legolas moved behind her, retying the laces of her gown which had been undone while they had been feeding Lothig. “You may turn around, Master Dwarf.” The ghost of a laugh played across her face. “I am decently attired once more.”

“I offer my apologies, my Lady…” he trailed off, though he didn’t cower under Legolas’ strong glare.

“I am Rhonith, daughter of Narví, at your service,” Rhonith bowed, one hand fisted over her heart – the gesture must mean something different among Dwarrow, Legolas realised – and placed her soft fingers on his forearm again. “This is Prince Legolas – the son of King Thranduil – who has been helping me care for Lothig,” she introduced.

“Again, my sincerest apologies, Lady Rhonith, Prince Legolas. We were told only that our pebble was in this room,” he ran his hand through his dark blond hair sheepishly, while his wife – Legolas recognised the look on her face as that of exasperated wives everywhere – glared at him. “I am afraid I was a little… eager… in my haste to see my child safe.”

Legolas bristled, his eyes glaring daggers at the rude Dwarf, “I assure you, Master Dwarf, no elf would mistreat a child!” Rhonith’s hand on his arm once more stilled his simmering temper and he limited himself to a slight snarl at the Dwarf.

“Hanar!” the wife hissed. “Apologies, my Lord Prince. We have been out of our minds with grief until your messenger arrived and with worry ever since then. Your messenger did not mention that our daughter was being cared for by someone who knew dwarrow… we feared her half-starved.” She swallowed back tears, clutching Lothig a little tighter. Legolas winced, reaching out to pat her shoulder compassionately. The Dwarf called Hanar tensed slightly, but seemed to realise that the motion was not a threat. The wife smiled slightly, “I am Vrís, daughter of Rekkr, and this is my husband, Hanar, son of Hadar, Master Blacksmith of Erebor.” Hanar bowed, earning him a smile from Vrís, who continued, “This is our daughter, Frís.”

“Frís…” Rhonith murmured. Legolas silently preferred Lothig. “Legolas took to calling her Lothig,” she chuckled, breaking the tension in the room.

“I’m sure Ada would like to meet Lothig’s parents,” he found himself saying, remembering his manners. “Why don’t you join us for the evening meal? I will take you to our guest chambers where you may refresh yourselves and we will see you later.” Legolas offered. Hanar nodded, while Vrís – was it common to give pebbles names that rhymed with their parent’s? – smiled. “I insist you stay for a few days, to recover fully from your ordeal and what I’m sure was a hasty journey here.” Legolas said, well aware that he was offering mostly because he didn’t want to leave the small bubble of fantasy he had constructed for himself while Lothig was theirs. “I sent Horthonion to speak to your King when we received his raven, and he is aptly named.” Rhonith kept her hand lightly resting on his arm as the way out of his rooms and down the corridors towards the Guest Wing. Galion would have readied rooms for them even if Legolas had not asked him; the Seneschal was never caught off guard, which was a good quality in a Steward, Legolas admitted, even if Galion lacked imagination.

“Horthonion means son of speed,” she explained, when the two dwarrow looked confused. “He is the fastest messenger in King Thranduil’s Halls, but he is not known for compassion with travelling companions who cannot keep up.”

“Truthfully, Lady Rhonith,” Hanar replied, “once we knew our pebble had not been eaten by those horrible spiders,” both dwarrow shuddered at the thought, and Legolas could sympathise with their revulsion. He had had several nightmares about Rhonith facing one of them alone, and he had only seen pieces of a corpse, not the actual creature, “we were ready to leave within five minutes. Your messenger did not push us harder than we pushed ourselves.”

“If I may, my Lady, how did you know how to care for Frís? I did not think the Eldar much experienced with children of other races,” Vrís asked, lifting her head from the once-more sleeping face of her daughter with marked reluctance. Legolas thought it would be a long time before she relinquished the pebble from her arms, feeling oddly bereft at the thought; he had grown used to holding her small warm body while Rhonith dozed, humming gentle lullabies into her tiny ears.

“ **Amadê Khazdûna**[7],” Rhonith said, turning back to her guests with a smile. A fingernail pinged softly at the bead woven into her hair. Hanar gasped.

“ **M’imnu Durin!**[8]” he exclaimed. Vrís smacked his arm, while Hanar turned dark red with embarrassment. Rhonith’s clear silver laugh filled the small corridor. Legolas chuckled.

“ **E nâthu Narví kafanâlu ‘abban, Zarakâl Niddînabanu Khazad-dûmu. E iraknâtha Durin.**[9]” Rhonith’s expression gentled at the almost reverent look on their faces. She switched back to Westron, “My father was an elf, Celebrimbor, Smith-Lord of Eregion, but I spent a lot of my formative years in the great Dwarrowdelf, and I was taught how to care for pebbles… same as any other Dwarf.”

“We thank you, Lady Durin.” Hanar’s voice was hoarse, and beside him, Vrís nodded heartily. Legolas felt slightly amused by their awed expressions, but he knew better than to mention it. He had never truly considered Rhonith’s status among her Dwarven kin, but the mere mention of the Durin name – he remembered her speaking of the name as that of the last of the Kings in what was now called Moria – had made them almost reverent. Opening the door in front of him, he waved the two Dwarrow through.

“Your guest rooms, for as long as you stay here,” Legolas smiled gently. “You will remain undisturbed here and I will send someone to fetch you for dinner.”

“Lothig should not be hungry again for a few hours at least,” Rhonith added with a calm smile. Hanar bowed politely, gratitude still shining brightly in his deep hazelnut eyes.

“If you need anything, speak to one of the elves in the corridors,” Legolas added. “If they do not speak Westron, they will know to find someone who does. Welcome to the Woodland Realm.” With a bow, he closed the door, turning to Rhonith, to offer her a small smile. “How do you wish to pass the time until dinner?” he asked, not quite ready to give up the monopoly on her attention he had enjoyed during this visit. Rhonith opened her mouth to answer, but instead she collapsed against the wall, shaking with laughter she tried to contain by biting her fist. Legolas cocked his head, realising suddenly that their new guests were oblivious to the keen hearing of Elven ears. Behind the door, Hanar and Vrís were whispering furiously.

“How did Narví’s daughter end up in Mirkwood?” Hanar began, “I did not think their King was overly fond of our folk-”

“Oh, simple,” Vrís chuckled, interrupting him breezily. “You saw them together, it was obvious how much love they have for each other,” she laughed. “You fool of a Longbeard.”

Outside the door, Legolas could feel his ears burning. Rhonith was still leaning against the wall, laughing softly. He revelled in the sound. In the back of his mind, however, he wondered how, if a Dwarf, who had known both of them for less than an hour, could see how he felt about her, he had managed to hide his heart from her. Another thought followed swiftly on the heels of that one, however: perhaps Rhonith _did_ know… and she had chosen to ignore his love for her? Suddenly, her laughter stabbed at him, like shards of ice in his heart. He spun swiftly, walking off with a half-hearted goodbye curtly tossed over his shoulder, needing to think, needing to carefully rebuild the shields around his heart he had let slip over the past two lefneir. He might be aware that his love would never be returned; she was too free a spirit to chain her to him, to keep her beside him always, he knew, the words hollow comfort after so long, but no less firm in resolve.

He did not see the way she winced as she watched him leave before she, too, whirled, hurrying back to her own rooms with a soft Khuzdul curse.

 

 

When his adopted daughter and his son joined the Elvenking for dinner, Thranduil sighed, tempted to pinch his brow in exasperation with the stubbornness of them both. He had hoped, based on the sight he had walked in on and how protective his son had acted towards both Rhonith and the dwarfling, that either one of them would have found the courage to speak of their obvious love for each other. Instead, he was greeted by his son, looking as close to sulking as he would permit himself in public, and his daughter, looking as though she had raided her wardrobe and jewellery boxes for the most Dwarven outfit she could find, glaring challengingly at Legolas when he happened to look her way and sending him sad, almost hurt glances when he didn’t.

Once again Thranduil cursed the decision he had long ago made not to push either of them, feeling tempted to do something drastic to break the tense atmosphere. It was obvious that Legolas had done something to upset Rhonith, though he couldn’t work out what it might have been. The King’s musings were interrupted by Galion showing in the three dwarrow, little Lothig still held tightly in her mother’s arms. Thranduil knew that she would not soon let go, recognizing in her face the lingering fear of a parent’s worst nightmare, remembering the times he had felt the same when one of his sons were hurt or lost – he still shuddered when he thought of the time Legolas had run off into the Forest alone and lost his way as a small elfling. Thranduil had briefly seen the two Dwarrow running through the corridors, but he had not had the heart to stop them, and he’d warned the guards on duty to tell them where to find their daughter as soon as Horthonion returned with them.

“Thranduil Aran,” Galion began, solemn as always. Thranduil had to hide a smile. Even after nearly three millennia in his post, Galion still felt he needed to be seen as worthy of it, coming off haughty and arrogant to most people who didn’t know him. “These are the parents of Lothig, Hanar, son of Hadar, the Master of the Blacksmith’s Guild of Erebor, and Lady Vrís, daughter of Rekkr.” The steward bowed, leaving the room silently.

“Welcome to the Woodland Realm of Greenwood, Master Hanar, Lady Vrís.” Thranduil nodded at the two dwarrow, gesturing grandly to the empty seats around the table. As they sat, the servants began carrying in steaming platters of food. Roast venison joined golden dishes of baked tubers covered in cheese and the fluffy rolls that had long-ago earned Maeassel the spot as his head cook. “Of course, you have already met my son, Prince Legolas, and my ward, Lady Rhonith, who have been caring for Lothig during her stay here,” Thranduil said, gesturing to the two younger elves on either side of him. “It gladdens my heart to see you reunited once more.” His words were a little stilted, but Thranduil meant every one. As he finished, the one who had been called Vrís seemed to want to say something, but then think better of it. Instead his greeting was answered by Master Hanar.

“Thank you my Lord Thranduil,” he said, standing once more to bow towards Thranduil, who returned the respectful gesture with a polite nod. “How can we ever repay you for the service you have done to my family?” the dwarf continued. At first, Thranduil waved off the words as simply an expression of gratitude, not missing the flash of hurt in the Dwarf’s eyes, but misunderstanding the meaning. Rhonith’s sharp elbow in his ribs made him turn to face her.

“ _You have to name a service, Atheg. Otherwise, you are saying that the life of his child has no value, a grave insult, and worse for her being a girl,_ ” she hissed in soft Sindarin. “ _As patriarch of the clan who took in the child, you have to claim something of Hanar, something you hold in equal value to the life of his child.”_ Thranduil could only boggle at her, but her insistent expression convinced him that she was quite serious about this. _No matter how many years he had had interactions with Dwarrow,_ he thought, _he would still never understand their ways completely._

“My apologies Master Hanar, I did not mean to offer you insult,” Thranduil said softly, catching the dwarf’s brown eyes. Beside him, Rhonith relaxed slightly. “Dwarven culture is unlike ours, and at times concepts will be misunderstood. Believe me when I say that we consider your daughter a precious joy to be treasured by all who meet her,” Thranduil bowed his head to the flustered dwarf, who seemed a little lost for words.

“Even so, King Thranduil, you must allow us to repay your generosity,” Vrís spoke softly, but authoritatively. Beside her, Hanar nodded. “My husband is a Master of his craft; perhaps we could make something for your house.”

A flash of an idea popped into Thranduil’s head, and he nodded solemnly. “Indeed, my Lady, I shall think on that. Perhaps you might – during your stay in my Realm – see if you have ideas? I am afraid I have never much cared to learn the ways of smith-craft, and I doubt I would be able to assess Master Hanar’s work adequately. My daughter is a jewel-smith herself, she would know better than I what your kin can do.” He paused, pleased that the Dwarf had not taken his words as an insult to his race. “If you truly wish to repay my family for your daughter’s care, I will ask one thing of you, however, Master Dwarf.” Hanar perked up, swallowing his bite of succulent venison quickly.

“What is it you require, King Thranduil?” he asked, doing his best not to seem wary. Thranduil had lived for many centuries, however, and though Dwarven faces were harder to read than those of Men, they were still not so stoic as Elves. He smiled gently, trying to set the dwarf at ease.

“Elves have a saying, Master Dwarf,” he explained – feeling no need to tell him that it was a Noldorin custom, and not one of his own people’s. Rhonith was part Noldo anyway, he reasoned, it was only fitting. “When an elf saves a child from death, he is bound as its family evermore. I wish for you to follow our custom as you wish me to follow yours, and let the Lady Rhonith be welcome in your home as a sister to your daughter.” Thranduil paused, studying the dwarf opposite him keenly. Master Hanar seemed lost for words, but Lady Vrís smiled gently.

“I accept your demand, King Thranduil,” she said, solemn as a vow. “Lady Rhonith will be welcomed as our honoured sister in Erebor whenever she wishes.” Thranduil bowed, while beside him Rhonith beamed happily.

“I accept your pledge, Lady Vrís, Master Hanar.”

With that, business seemed to be concluded to the satisfaction of all parties and Thranduil breathed a silent sigh of relief, raising his goblet of Dorwinion in Hanar’s direction; a silent toast. He knew that the Master of any Guild would be a considerable power in Erebor; it wouldn’t do to snub the dwarrow too badly and harm the trade his people enjoyed.

“What of your son, King Thranduil? You tell me your family shared responsibility for my daughter; what boon would Prince Legolas ask of me for his kindness?” Hanar asked. Thranduil groaned internally. He had celebrated the end of this awkward business of rewards for kindnesses he felt should be expected of any decent being in Middle-Earth too soon, it seemed. They weren’t Orcs, for Eru’s sake!

“You claim to be a Master smith, Master Hanar,” Legolas said, and Thranduil breathed a slight sigh of relief that Legolas seemed to have an idea; he was coming up blank. “Do you craft weapons? I would feel better not using the blades I almost attacked Lady Rhonith’s new kinsmen with. It seems fitting to me that you replace the blades with which I would have defended your child.” A glance to his side made Thranduil feel exasperated with the two younger elves all over again. Legolas’ eyes were firmly on Master Hanar, but Rhonith and Vrís both looked at his son with expressions he could only call soppy. Sometimes, he wondered how he had raised such a wilfully blind ellon. _He_ hadn’t been nearly as incompetent at winning his own Lady, and _he_ had been burned by a dragon and half-dead at the time! Legolas had no such excuse! Nor, for that matter, was Rhonith blameless, but he at least understood her reasons for keeping silent on the topic even if they had never discussed it openly.

“A fitting tribute, Prince Legolas. Consider it done.” Hanar said, smiling, “I shall make you the finest blades Erebor has ever seen.” Vrís had now turned her soppy look on her husband, who seemed to be blushing slightly under his thick blonde beard. Thranduil drained his goblet, while Rhonith seemed to remember that she was mad at Legolas and changed her soft expression to an angry scowl. Thranduil felt a distinct need for more wine.

 

 

A year later, Rhonith returned from a visit to Erebor in the company of Master Hanar, who presented the two short swords he had crafted to Legolas with a solemn face. The grin he hid in his beard at the expression on the Prince’s face went unnoticed by all but Rhonith, who chuckled, admiring the exquisite details of the two swords. Thranduil had to admit that he had rarely seen finer blades wrought by elves, and he was quite pleased with Hanar’s gift for his son. He was even more pleased when the dwarf managed to lay out pipes of plumbing throughout the caves, letting the heated water from their underground pools run freely into several bathing chambers on the upper levels, a remarkable feat of engineering. Most of the Woodland Elves still used the pools, but the Royal Quarters now sported a bathing pool of Thranduil’s very own, which he enjoyed immensely.

 

Over the formative years of Frís’ life, she would spend time in Thranduil’s Court or Rhonith would stop by Erebor on her travels, building the kinship between the two. Thranduil often praised her for increasing the frequency of Rhonith’s visits, which had tapered off during the last few centuries as Legolas continued to deny his own heart – and hers. He even managed to build a fond friendship with Hanar, whose brand of quirky and inventive craziness continued to surprise the Elf – something rarely found after such a long life. Not all his ideas were equally practical, of course, but even the ones that proved intrinsically flawed were amusing to the Elvenking, who continued to allow the Blacksmith entry into his Realm even after relations with Thrór were strained beyond repair.

 

Before she married Thraín, Frís could often be found assisting in the meetings of trade delegations between the neighbouring peoples, becoming a valued member of the court, and after she wed the Crown Prince, Princess Frís still maintained the most cordial relations with the Elven delegations and emissaries. Thrór’s advancing goldsickness hampered her efforts at polite and peaceful relations between the two people, but Frís did the best she could to keep feuds and grudges to a minimum.

 

When the Dragon came, Frís – as well as the genuine friendship he had built with her father over the years – was the true reason Thranduil went along with Rhonith’s hare-brained scheme to help the Dwarrow behind Thrór’s back. His mischievous side revelled in spiting the Dwarf-King’s edicts; despite his anger at Thrór’s carelessness and calumny, he had no wish to see his neighbours starving and homeless.

 

 

[1] My Lady?

[2] Hush, little carving, you are safe.

[3] Hush, pebble

[4] Hungry?

[5] Little flower

[6] mother

[7] My mother was a Dwarf-lady

[8] In the name of Durin

[9] I am daughter of Narví, she who is a carver of stones, Master of the Brotherhood of Stone in Khazad-dûm (exclusive guild of engineers). I am the niece of Durin.


End file.
